Tuesday, May 31, 2016

OTI:six poems and notes:5/31/16

Open To Interpretation


I don't know what to think
Or drink
I drink to think
I know what to drink!


Puddles muddle,
Befuddle troubles' bubbles,
Puddles' baubles!



A Hollow Horse

A hollow horse
A hidden force.
Plug your ears
From Sirens fears.
Shield your locks
From crashing rocks.
Tell a lie
To big one eye.
String the bow
And lay them low.






Notes: I haven't been to the library in awhile!...checked out, brought home, Frost, Dickinson, Nash...they make me feel weak, vocabulary wise!...forward in Nash books noted he wrote on legal pads with pencils...lots...and gave example...not worked up finished things...like notes...I used to do sorta that in school while taking lecture notes...thought to not take myself so serious and scribbled on the iphone note pad...by that I mean, I didn't begin with a sentiment, but let a word, or thought, generate the sentiment...I guess that's the two ways to go about things!...once one has a sentiment, there's interplay...words have a kind of generative creative force of their own...I often don't see myself what all they are doing, even though I wrote them down!



OTI:thirteen poems and notes:5/31/16

Open To Interpretation

Really Really

Anchored, the night swells phosphor
And slap slap the hull,
I rest by the rail and thought talk,
Commensurate with the fish:
'We're a crew of romantic orphans,'
'You know?',
'And the navigators interpreting'
'The Black Deck'
'Haven't a clue where we're going.'
'Hard to tell Captain,'
'We're really really lost,'
'Her Black Ship on a course'
'To nowhere in particular'
'However really really she's assured.'


They have their palaces,
And a busy lot with the upkeep.
I have all the time in the world.
So, which do you prefer,
To rattle about those many roomed mansions,
Or be still with me
On these trailside benches overlooking
Sunrise to sunset mountain and ocean?

Truer True

Ah well yeah
Hereabout has always been
Phonier than phony,
So truer than true.

Good and Bad Bad and Good

I'm too good to be bad,
Too bad to be good!
And you, so lovely,
And you?


The Black Ship is in pawn
To the dour black suits,
So treasures we bring
From pillaging to your palms.


Pip with his concertina
Entertains us,
Yours and your siblings' steps
Find his rhythms.
Oh, where would we be
Without his concertina?
Where would Pip be?
Quiet, below the black deck peeling potatoes?
Where I would be
Absent you.

Parrots Come

Oh, the parrots came back!
And dislodged the gulls and ravens from the neon rigging
With their riotous color
And raucous talk!


Time was a pocket knife was standard issue,
Now it's a panic,
But new issued have been these handy black mirrors in our pockets...
We pull them out
A real panic!

Parrots Go

The parrots left,
So short a visit,
As usual,
And the gulls and ravens back,
With their usual,
And we back bent over the black deck,
Doing the usual.

Schrodinger's Cat

Just open the damn box
And leave a comment
If I'm dead or alive!

The Black Mirrors

Mirrors mirrors
On the walls
Whose is the fairest
Of them all?!

Making Me

I look in these black mirrors
And I'm not even sure it's even me there.
Then again, before,
I wasn't sure either,
But at least then on the other side
There wasn't someone making me!

 Deal Queequeg!

Deal Queequeg!
Just deal the black cards...
I feel lucky...
And wipe that hungry smirk
Off your tattooed face!


Notes: Really Really...'nowhere in particular' references Mr. Toad's Wild Ride cartoon!...don't like to use 'howevers', but there it is...Choose, GoodBadBadGood, Truer Than True...these have all been rattling around in my head for years, decades!...Panics...just a joke...a lot of these are jokes with a rhyme or two...Concertina...haven't checked yet...picturing the little squeeze box in Kirk Douglas' hands...'I've a whale of a tale to tell you lads..."....Parrots Come Parrots Go...Parrots in the Palm trees outside while writing...they always visit, passing through...Schrodinger's Cat...likely lifted...The Black Mirrors...picturing myself at Target or Best Buy media departments, and such, as in Making Me...another joke...Deal Queequeg!...ral!...oh, had it right, have to get a concertina, and learn that one song (Douglas has guitar...crew member the concertina!!)...it's early, I could do more today!...ral...



Monday, May 30, 2016

OTI:thirteen poems and notes:5/30/16

Open To Interpretation

Minuet in G

What instruments might we be?
Watteau's violin for me?
You, Madeline's cello?
All the Seven Seas will hear our tones,
All the electric dreamers.
Minuet in G?
Yes, surely,


Changeless change
Frozen time sentries
Everywhere stand guard
Over unknowns' tombs.

No Hoods No Colors

It's a gentlemen's agreement
Not to assassinate one another,
And sit at a round table,
No hoods, no colors,
Just hard long looks.
Our agreement too!
We relax on her marlin snout to tail fin
Black deck,
Mirrored to eternity,
No hoods, no colors,
Just hard long looks.
Overboard, just for a swim,
We dive in droves,
Smiling, dying with laughter.


I don't know,
I might be mean,
And folk maybe say,
'He's ugly and mean!'
Maybe ugly too,
I don't know.
Oh, woe,
If you think of me so low!

Devil Dogs

Nope, we don't leave off,
Never ever,
We're dogs on your graves.
Send us on some hell task?
It's done.


What I tried to say
Is I don't want to command you,
Make you stay in any way.
This dance is okay,
But if your thoughts are elsewhere,
And distant seems my story telling array,
It's okay.
My thoughts for you will stay,
And wait.


I think too much,
And try to explain
What is plain:
Seeing me
Seeing you
Seeing me,
My refrain.


Poverty is pathetic,
But what children have accounts?
And if with your wealth you are indifferent,
Only with wealth to wealth repair,
Your castle I'm in
Is just an amusement lure for shows,
No adopting home for growth.


It would seem I'm someone
By the wayside
Not the someone of your dreams,
But you're in the ditch,
Let me help you out,
I'll be platonic...
And laconic seeing you on your way.


Are you a clam so closed
That the only way I can open you
Is with his perfumed words?
I can't have misjudged,
You're so lovely to see.
Like an octopus,
I wait with my pebbles.


All along the long field of rusted barbed wire
The long long rows of lowered helmets on either side
Like crushed ration cans in a dump.
"I hear that in the future"
"There's a dive bar"
"Where everyone knows your name."
"Cheers, mate!  Almost time to go!"
"Oh!  You know the place!"


Quixotic, I'd say I am,
And you my Dulcinea,
My knightly acting
Having convinced me,
Creating my own heraldry
That your genuine noble Knights
Find amusing,
I hear a dragon nearby,
"Just a windmill!" they say,
Hmmph, what do they know.


So, the day being so,
I rolled out to the above and below,
A morning cool and overcast,
The flower girl's first customer.
Arrived, a bit lost, finding again,
'Sorry it's just me,'
'Providence knows I try!'
Oh!  Wait!
Is that your mom?
Yes, pop too, grandma over there, and yours?
Ah, nearly same years.  And 96!
He's Samoan, and period punctuates everything he relates with laughter,
  as Samoans do.
Time will come when no one comes around ( laughing).
Good to meet you, Bro!
Yes, you too, see you
(Both of us laughing)!


Notes: Minuet in G...see the movie Electric Dreams...Tombs...so charmed I am by the Chinese military girls on Parade, that now and then it's on my playlist...thereabout one discovers other Parades, and the changing of the guard at tombs of the unknown soldier...No hoods, no colors...hoods is short for hoodies, monk like sweatshirts with hoods...colors...emblems gangs wear on their vests/jackets...Woe...needless to say, in some circles I'm not well liked!...checking Devil Dogs, I found the origin of 'do you expect to live forever'...which looped back into No Hoods No Colors...no, I'm not a marine...but having been acquainted with so many, I feel like it!......Refrain...spot on!...Repair...I repaired a line with 'repair' and it made the whole poem, though some other lines need fixing too...Laconic...laconic...Cheers...pop's favorite show...Dragon...Cervantes' Don Quixote...oft referenced!...Periods...all words have synonyms, double meanings, puns, word play's much fun...add rhymes and you have a poem...Memorial Day is every ones day, and my going on not to take anything away from anyone's specialness, for anything, or anyone...Wait...what I'm trying to say!

'can you hear me down there?'
--Electric Dreams



Sunday, May 29, 2016

OTI:eleven poems and notes:5/29/16

Open To Interpretation

Sierra Trails

Well, the back and forth negotiations
Went south
In spite of all my precautions.
What to do? What to do?
All the previous times on this
Devious difficult trail,
I playing for you,
You playing coy,
Like Bucks and Does,
We've turned around at this spot,
And from one weekend to the next,
Having lost our pace,
Love's momentum has
Been diverted and diverted,
And with a sigh, after a month or so
of no returns, parted.
I think ahead, maybe next weekend
We go back, go beyond,
Just get over it,
But now with the dust up memory
The trail will be even more devious and difficult.
What to do? What to do?
Oh, what things I go through
To go back and forth with you!


I don't like to think of myself as sneaky,
But I am I am
With my quiver of flirts
So devious as to make my rivals
Jealous little squirts!


We were transporting the war
The two of us,
We had a grip on both sides
And couldn't put it down
During a break
While we waited on the cliffs
Above your frolicking in the surf.


Awake all night thinking about deviate diversions
I just want to jump off that bus while it's moving!
But every morning I'm back at the stop,
Bleary eyed,
Waiting to step aboard
And go to work.


It's just a wallet
With that old money stink
But you nuzzle it
Like it was a bacon bit treat
In my pocket.


Lawrence Durrell
Ken and June
Clea and Mark
I loved you so much
And thank you so much
For the safe rest
During the perilous passage.


I was hurtful,
I know,
It wasn't safe,
Reputations all at stake.
I dragged everyone along
Willy nilly!
I still do,
Hang on!


All of these could be epics/books!
Thank goodness for all of you
I can be content with these few lines synopsis!

Not Over

I'm still so much not over you!
You may be above or below,
Maybe Google knows,
But I won't.

(for Wolfie)

You sat down on the other end of my side,
But the picnic table began to tip.
Rearranged, that was better,
Face to face.
You offered me some of your crackers,
Accepted with thanks.
I wanted to give you everything I had
But saw you traveled simple,
After your own fashion,
And keen for story books
Light to carry--
So this for you to bring along.


Today, I didn't shave.
I can be, am,
Oh, a contrast
To you fresh from your shower
Donning your necklace!
My everyday clothes?
Same I wear hiking in the Sierra.
There, I wear my bandana around my throat,
Not here.


Notes: Meeting up with people who have read and like the books you've read is really really nice...hasn't happened in awhile...Ken and June named their kids after characters in Durrell's Alexandrian Quartet...this morning I was listening to 710 sports talk radio, and the subject was momentum, as in basketball when one team gets hot and scores a lot of points, and a caller in gave an example: "It's like on a first date, when everything goes perfect and smooth, you break the ice and it's clear sailing on too the second date, and twenty years later you're both still talking about the first one."  'love's momentum' was taken from that for Sierra Trails...the broadcasters were so taken with the caller's example, gloriously enriched by his deep southern country accent, that they asked him to leave his number with the engineers, so as to call him now and then for more...don't know but Hollywood could make a movie just from that call!...gosh, I don't think anyone reads the posts down this far, but if someone in the Valley does, do me the favor of copying out Balance and giving it to Wolfie if she is still about.  Grip is for Ron Podlaski.



Saturday, May 28, 2016

OTI:eight poems and notes:5/28/16

Open To Interpretation


Starved, frozen,
Broken boned forgotten
In some forsaken
Rescue finds you,
Doctors restore you.
Being one too,
Human kind adopts you.


Assurances we take
From insurance payments we make.
No one can stand alone in the cold,
Not young, not old.


Oh, celebratory recovery flowers
Fill the room
From from from,
And this one from the staff,
With payment book,
How fun fun fun!


We're all orphans to begin,
Truth be told,
Between family and friends.

One After The Other

Oh, another another
One after the other
The storks drop them off
Oh! That one too hard
And so lost
In inconsolable grief's regard.

Make Kids

Make kids,
It's all you're all
$&@/";:- good at.

Radio Songs

Whose to say
How it all is
Or where it all comes from,
The songs I mean
That come over the radio?
All I know
Is they are too good,
Good all the time.


Deep deep down
We are all deeply troubled
Our minds all steeped
In disaster after disaster,
Our neighbors' weeping,
Our standing on rubble.


Notes: good news came over the phone, grand nephew's new baby boy arrived okay, but after much travail by mom...and listening to report from my niece, I realized how little I know of travails!...women seem to have all been there!...beyond men's reach!...anyway, got to thinking about kids...hiking friend had an obsessive concern with falling off a trail and getting stranded in some canyon...gave me a book about such to read...first part was the fall...then the rescue...then almost the whole book about recovery in the hospital...in a moment, one can find one's plate high with grief!...Adoption  a take on that...Assurances, how we shield against 'that'...Fun how we get through  'that'!...Orphans looks to be a plagiarism of a Sufi story I read...lot of Sufi influence in OTI!, which is odd, as I often don't have a clue when I'm reading Sufi things...One After Another...two concerned families were in the waiting room...while one birth was successful, another, just as difficult, was still born...joy and sorrow often side by side in hospitals' day to day...Make Kids is just @#$%&! true!...Radio Songs I wrote down once, on a tear stained letter, part of a romantic effort, back in 1972 or so...oft repeated in my thoughts since...and thought to write it down, as I lost the memory for a sec...and panicked...Troubled...I hear it, see it, all the time...the kind of repressed phobia of knowing as we know now we are on a very small planet in a very big universe full of crashed together things!



Thursday, May 26, 2016

OTI:thirteen poems and notes:5/26/16

Open To Interpretation

Seashell With Wheels

Fist bumping ants
At Banner and Harbor:
History accumulates::
Secretes automobiles
Like wheeled seashells.

What's Important

So, what's most important?
Kids, family...
Oh, not going to the moon?
You can do that too,
But if it's all you're doing,
You're screwed...


I started out to do one
About the evolution of something made
Anything made
How from an idea
To a sketch
To a few words
To a working model
To scaling up
And rounding up
All the other parts
From ideas and words
Putting them all together.
A rocket to Mars
Takes a lot of parts!
Oh, this is one now!

Shin Guards

She keeps biting my ankles!
So I got me some
Baseball catchers shin guards.
Did those work?
I'm taking up baseball umpiring.


Work two jobs
You need to work two jobs!

Ferdinand The Bull 2

So, why didn't you marry?
Ah!  They wouldn't have me.
I'm too lazy and independent,
I mean,
I lay down in the road
Holding up traffic!

Disney Kid

I'm not an Ancient Greek,
Past times are past,
But I am a Disney kid.
Historians have no hold on me
Like the hilarity
Of Donald Duck and the Chipmunks.


This month
By googles' count
I have 196 readers in Russia...
What the hell?
I don't speak Russian.

The Evolution Revolution

I saw the Evolution Revolution
From short hair
To long hair
(Tired out with no hair),
And from handshakes
To high fives
To fist bumps, etc. etc.
I don't know what they're doing now.
(They shave everywhere!)


Leave me alone with your ship,
And I'll take it,
A la Jack Sparrow.

On The Couch

No one is reading the same thing!
Like time was the Sunday
Los Angeles Times,
Crossword puzzle to mom,
Comics to pop,
Calendar Book Reviews
And such,
To me on the couch!

Like Ichi*
(*Japanese blind samurai television hero)

I eat like Ichi,
I burp and slobber
And drool noodles,
I'm like the dogs with hands!
Eating's not my skill set.
Give me my keypad cane.

Plain Sight

Hide in plain sight?
I am in plain sight.
So why don't they shoot?
Not having seen me in the open,
I've paralyzed them with confusion!


Notes:  Seashells With Wheels was going to be really long...lines started showing, dreamlike as they do, but not near anything to write down, so put off...then considered, that will all be too long, and beyond my skills!...then I tried to work up more of it with Part...'it' being a notion from observing the meticulous body work of automobiles...all the exact measures...I couldn't do that, I can't imagine how it's done!...years of draftsmanship of course, exacting blueprints, then machining to the exact details, pieces of work that all have history: invention and editorial acceptance....it's like a simple notion, idea, is passed along from hand to hand, each iteration adding what's needed to completion...and it's the archival history of what's gone before that winnows each part, makes it workably assembleble with the whole...there's a word Ogdan Nash would work...assembleable...got side tracked to Nash, seeing a side bar mention, and, some of these are Nashables!...ral! (running around laughing--every time I insert this I remember the little kid running around loose in the laundromat, opening all the dryer doors he could reach)...anyway, watching most everyday those cars stop and going at the intersection out side Denny's has impressed upon me how impressive traffic is, though it is very very hard to romanticize, poetisize, highway mundaneness!...but a simple idea, old or new, if realized, takes on all that's gone before and grows...like a seashell I thought...and the traffic stops and goes like ants in their lines passing one another, bumping one another...hence fist bump ants...fist bumps show up again in The Evolution Revolution, which is very Nashy!...RAL!!!...oh...awhile back, by accident in a heading, I typed in two colons...::...thought about that...a colon indicates what went before is like what follows, and haiku writers are famous for this...example:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet black bough.

That's Ezra Pound's famous one, and it's titled, 'In The Metro' which is kind of a poetic cheat, to use the title to cue how to interpret a poem...I do it at times, did it here with Escape...but that's an aside...where was I...oh...copy paste...I was going to do one about copy pasting, but lost it...notion was that I see passages I see by other writers and copy paste them...and was going to apologize for going beyond 'scholarly quote' decorum, but thinking 'why should I?, it's your fault for writing so good!'...hmmph...that's almost it...but the copy paste I was thinking of was this one, which I found searching out how seashells are made, and found it a fit for an intro quote for/to  the epic/book Seashells With Wheels before it shrunk down to five lines...brb...oh, the colons...orthodoxy has it that a colon lists a couple related things, and I imagine if it's a nested list, each thing would be separated by just the two dots...but, I thought, after seeing my mistake...OTI:one poem and notes::5/5/16, or something, that if there were three things, or more, one could, being Nashy again!, use another set of dots for each thing...like :  ::  :::, which would indicate an ascending, or descending, order: assembly:: multiple:::layered::::secretions!...ral!!!...


How Seashells Are Made

Francis Horne, a biologist who studies shell formation at Texas State University, offers this answer.

 Mantle tissue that is located under and in contact with the shell secretes proteins and mineral extracellularly to form the shell. Think of laying down steel (protein) and pouring concrete (mineral) over it.



That's, that's the whole notion of 'history secreting' I was after watching Banner and Harbor!...Horne even 'nashes' out 'extracellularly'!



Wednesday, May 25, 2016

OTI:four poems and notes:5/25/16

Open To Interpretation

I Can't Fathom

I can't fathom
Lawyer talk
Doctor talk
Mathematical talk
And such,
Precision like
The engineers use
To transport us about.
Any wonder I take to your black deck
Where we swear a lot
And giggle at our own jokes?
When the stiffly clad,
With their elaborate languages of doom,
Try to come up the plank
We pull away from that shore quick!


Oh, the black deck is for dancing,
And my words like to dance,
Rock back and forth,
Twirling around spinning,
Shinnying up the mast
To the very top
With you,
Swaying beneath the Stars and Moon.

Cinderella Dreams

The black deck is always moving,
And while on our knees
As we scrub and polish and clean
We can see before our very noses
All the Cinderella dreams.


On the black deck,
Work done,
We cross legged huddle
And play cards
With a black deck, of course.
No king but Clotho
No queen but Lachesis
No jack but Atropos.
The joker we call Pip.
Queequeg always deals.


Notes: hmmph...got note block or something...no notes for these!...oh!...wait...an update...I've known for awhile to write with a sense of where my articulation is...my tongue, my teeth, mouth open, closed, and such...and just realized a rhyme needn't just be just a sound rhyme, but too can be an articulation self similarity...example: 'knees' and 'clean'...hee hee...running around laughing!



Monday, May 23, 2016

OTI:one poem and notes:5/23/16

Open To Interpretation

Dinner Time

I'm hungry,
Your hungry,
We're all hungry:
The grammatical economical cannibal criminal communal
Riding the Great Turtle.
We're all delicious.
Skin and bones look on,
Having lost their grip.
A few rescued,
But most out of reach,
Out of sight, out of mind,
Out of dinner time.
Love, with the colors of the rainbow,
Mixes on our pallets an infinity of tastes
For I, you, all of us,
A cornucopia.
Share it.


Notes: Well, it's a pronouncement poem...punditry...which I try to avoid...trouble started when I wrote I you we hungry, and the thought that's grammar of some sort, Nature's tooth and claw...grammatical...al...I kept adding 'al' rhymes, and the Great Turtle showed up...again (see earlier poem)...does criminal fit!?...'all the world a crime'?...the Graveyard poets often came up against 'all the world a grave'...further along is 'all the world a womb'...I can't think the poem through...too many obstacles!...Love, simple, true, only way out of it!...oh...there it is...'share it'...post, and port to facebook,
and get a before dawn snack!...then a nap!



Sunday, May 22, 2016

OTI:seven poems and notes::5/22/16

Open To Interpretation


I could only weep
When our expected meeting
Didn't keep.
It is the worst of things,
Like over gravestones standings.
Oh, but yet we're not under,
Though sorrow shaken
By that one blast of thunder,
Likely not the last.


She knits,
It's after midnight
And she sits on the metal bench
At the entrance to Denny's.
Her right eye gone? Damaged?
The lids just a slit.
From a wedding? A prom?
Young couples in formal
Tuxes and gowns
Returning to their cars
Pause to greet her.
And with gracious Spanish
Wish the knitting lady good evening.
She looks up from her knitting,
And too in Spanish wishes them well.
To my car I follow
As they to theirs.
From behind,
A booming voice,
In English!
"Young man, let no woman,"
"Let no man,"
"Come between you"
"And your education!"
I'm a bit old,
But know when the Fates address.


Oh, the car sellers kept
Coming around
With name trade,
How long you been,
And such,
And I kept just smiling,
Just looking,
Just really annoying,
Until their turnabouts
Made me feel guilty.
So, by way of apology,
And thanks for the time,
No insult intended,
From my shirt pocket
I handed one retreating a dollar.
Oh, the look!
But they kept the dollar!


My hands,
I can't hide them,
Like Hawk's!
An age and genetic thing.
So, see, how
Already you dwell,
Kindly clawing me to tell.
Small wonder then
What I can hide
I will keep hidden
From your sympathies' burdens.
As for my face,
It's just a face:)


It's easy to be spare,
Humble, simple,
Sit like a yogi.
Your swinging necklace,
An accomplishment!


Am I a lout
To spout?
These bemused dreams
Just for me?


From the dictionary look up check:
May 22, 2016,
Word of the Day,
A lady love, sweetheart.
Increase my vocabulary?
For that I have desire's sighs,
Dilemma is the translated reception,
Another windmill!


Notes: The nineteenth century was the era of the Graveyard Poets, their modern counterparts, the black clad Goths...gloom, melancholia, was found to be kind of sexy....thought to elaborate on this, but the Warrior game is beginning...off to the dungeon/gym to watch...dungeons have cable...there is something to this, as in the end only one team remains standing, the rest have gone fishing to relieve the gloom!...but let me snag Emily's poems...brb...


A not admitting of the wound
Until it grew so wide
That all my Life had entered it
And there were troughs beside -
A closing of the simple lid that opened to the sun
Until the tender Carpenter
Perpetual nail it down -
After great pain, a formal feeling comes – (372)

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?
The Feet, mechanical, go round –
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –
This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
Thunder can be two poems...Dulcinea is all net...


Friday, May 20, 2016

OTI:eleven poems and notes:5/20/16

Open To Interpretation


From the cell to the dungeon
Now and then
And so earn a sardonic token
Admission to your inquisition.
The attending attentive,
Me?, I'm thinking,
'Progress, and then what,
No more token visits?'


Hit her!
You suggest,
Smack her on the butt.
Better that than the pond,
Where you nearly went, you know.
Ahh, it's said not to...
And where would gentleness go?
My dog's friendly biting wounds I endure
While my dissuading training
Continues treat by treat,
Rather than threat by threat.
Don't know though,
Wish I was sure!
You've left a wound also
With your concerned council.


My housemate's room
Is just as stuffed as mine,
We collect this and that,
That and this,
Recursive recluses too.
But her estranged husband comes by,
Her wayward son too, too rarely,
Which is more than I can say
For you,
And I!

Night Dive

Night dives are eternal
Where a fellow trades feet
For flippers and mermaids
Free of fishy jealousies.

Your Home

Your home, where
News will never reach,
Academics never teach,
Holy never preach,
Your crew ever runs to
Over every beach,
Through every breach.

Bent Notes

Guitarists will bend their notes,
Singers too,
Always a bit off
From dead center.
Just think of me like that.


We read too fast,
I've always thought.
Slow down
And Sense will tie up fast.

The Hunt

Turn the crew against me?
We'll have a good laugh.
Rally the rivals against me?
Bring it on.
Take her to them?
Then the hunt begins.


Some doubts always bleed,
Hurting wounds to carry.
If such from me you marry,
Shut me out.


My words
Can inspire.
Your words


Give me another to unravel,
Your puzzles are better than Cheetoes!


Notes:  Over at Poetry's site, once just the little magazine with Pegasus on the cover, there's a lot of comprehensive stuff...overwhelming!...but the web does that...what did Emily Dickinson do?...stayed home with her garden, wrote letters and poems to friends and family...made time for such from housework, and the continual round of visits from neighbors...visits from neighbors!?...where did that go?...I was reading her bio and reviews, some poems too at Poetry...very good...few poems I'd read before seemed obscure, seemed she an early Laura Riding precursor...Riding took to her Orange Grove...but I was getting Emily's, and thought, I'm poaching on her turf...sentiments are like that, cross garden borders shared...like the dislike of dust for the dusting...

Token started out thinking about going to the gym, the machines you know, and the towel token...Doubt the ongoing struggle with Maya my dog...lately found grabbing her tail distracts her from grabbing my ankles!...just...Recursive, yep, that's that...Night Dive and Your Home will remain obscure...though night diving will get a revisit...to see the moon from under the ocean surface is different...Bent Notes is really very important...Nature is like that...Fast too, important...thought to call The Hunt, Helen...Homer's skills are so beyond...Doubts stems from Doubt, and one back aways, Thread...Words and Cheetoes...sometimes just want to toss some up, to see if I can catch ...missed!



Wednesday, May 18, 2016

OTI:seventeen poems(18) and notes:5/18/16

Open To Interpretation


It's the same watch,
Just different faces,
And they all come pre-wound,
Motion powered.

What Can I Say?

A long voyage's day to day,
What can I say?
Today's tale?
An unfinished book
Put away.


Bring you common things?
Like the cannon fodder underlings?
Rather approach empty handed
Than that!

I Hadn't Thought

I hadn't thought to come this far
But now that we are
Ever more simultaneously
Closely distant,


The mocking bird sings
All day, all night.
On your tune
The lyrics I write
Will molt like feathers.


Exchange the gifts
For something frivolous
Something foolish
Something silly beyond nonsense
Something me.


Petroglyphs in stone
Spray painted over,
No matter.
It wasn't monuments we sought
Like the overwrought with cans.


I wait in the dark
Until the postal delivery
Opens the squeaky metal door.


If I knew
New would be
Newer than new!

The Great Turtle

Quicker than quick,
Faster than fast,
Older than last.

From The Shadows

From the shadows,
The siblings
Cool calculating scrutiny.
Your lipstick print
Brings their inspection
And enquiry.


This place is full of fear,
But it appears
Our arrears
Require us here.


So I run around laughing
The laundry machines washing.


Rummaging through the glove box,
A pencil, a pen, a sharpie,
A stick!
Before it slips!
I've remembered the lyric
"Not to forget"!

Vacation Songs

On the back of the receipt
Your song I kept.
Funds all gone,
Of course,
Without remorse.

Small Wonder

On so long a watch
Small wonder
Eyelids lower
Voices whisper
'let it all go'
Here they come again.


Close again
And the anxiety birds
From the treetops singing.
A relief
When you are far ahead,
And I can rest on a boulder,
The forest quiet.


poems do,
enough for a book
so I can everywhere carry you,
no matter if few,
thin books fit in the pack
and light too.


Notes: I mean, how many poems have 'squeaky' in them? (too many:)...running around laughing...update: added one, Yes, so eighteen, for the eighteenth...



Tuesday, May 17, 2016

OTI:four poems and notes:5/17/16

Open To Interpretation


Ask the Ravens
In the neon rigging
That keep us scrubbing.
Each has the same answer,
Ours too.

Her Black Ship

The black light running lanterns
Shine across the polished black deck,
Down the black hull
On the phosphorescent sea,
The mast, aglow with corposant,
The neon sail taught with wind
From the arctic dark winter,
Rolling clouds
Thundering with lightning webbing,
Ebony dolphins
Chase the crimson prow wakes,
The denizens of the benthic
Salute the passage of her keel.


Will we fall out of favor?
Each watch with cautioned steps
Patrols the black ice slick deck
Rolling side to side
On cold oblivion.


Did I tell you
It is a mixed crew,
Siblings of sorts?


Notes: I'm working on the 'crew', so Siblings is a fragment...I looked up 'sibling', and came across Twin Speak...apparently very young twins talk to one another with an invented language unique to just them...invented, singular languages have a name: Idioglossia...that's, that's just charming...now I understand why no one understands me!...bit jealous of Keats' dragon tail rudder, hence Her Black Ship...

a re-quote
(Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones,
And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast,
Stitch creeds together for a sail, with groans
To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast;
Although your rudder be a dragon's tail
Long sever'd, yet still hard with agony,
Your cordage large uprootings from the skull
Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail
To find the Melancholy — whether she
Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull.



Monday, May 16, 2016

OTI:seven poems and notes:5/16/16

Open To Interpretation


Oh, you have your shady oaks
Green Spring hillsides
And wild flowers,
While I'm in the ring.
Ignore their cheers,
I'll do my best to make them groan.


Every fight has two sides
And each has fans
If one side never wins
Except on rare occasions.

Matador's Demons

These demons!
They dress me up like a festival flowered saint,
Dote on my every word,
And wear cheering smiling masks
To hide chagrined grimaced disappointment that I survived
Yet again.


Again we lure one another here,
Just to jostle
Of our horns.


It's safe enough
I trust
Management will part us
If our tumble stumbles.

Fourth Wall

Oh! That can't happen!
The bull has leapt the fourth wall!


"All the world's a stage"
Somewhere too
Seating for the Olympians
Watching me
Watching you.


Notes:  I got to thinking about bulls and bull fighting...some of the titles are like gags...Ferdinand, Lakers...poems more substantive I hope!...the Fourth Wall is a curio philosophically...don't wonder but the professional philosophers have gone on about it....the fourth wall is the wall between the audience and the actors on stage...the actors don't address the audience, they're not in the play...sometimes, like in Deadpool, or a Daffy Duck cartoon, actors will commensurate with the audience...but the usual is for the audience to take their seats, watch, applaud, and leave...no connection between audience and actors whatsoever...so there's this barrier...fans can't befriend celebrities, and celebrities don't befriend their fans...and, and that's what's going on with social media...for example, I was watching youtube of John Sebastian of The Loving Spoonful singing solo at Woodstock...'darling be home soon'...it was probably the best song there, and that's saying a lot!...and afterwards, as noted in the youtube comments, he thanks the crowd, and walks off stage, back turned, and for a moment just holds his head in disbelief...disbelief in the sense of having participated in something ephemeral and extraordinary!...the connecting moments between performers and fans are probably the most intimate we have, yet they are the most distant...between is the fourth wall...between ourselves and Nature is a fourth wall, and there is a range of attempts by us to cross over it...on youtube I didn't look up bullfights...too cruel...but looked up Minoan Bull Jumping...some cool clips, and one was of a bull in a Spanish arena that jumps the wall into the crowd and stadium seating...animal planet has the best narrated one...oh, the humanity!...fortunately, no one seriously hurt, I think...bull put down of course...on web today story of baby buffalo that was put in a car trunk, or something, haven't read it...buffalo put down too...unfriended!...in the ancient world, bull jumping, or dodging, was widespread...a youtube of bull jumping in Ethiopia was different...a half dozen brahma bulls were positioned side by side, and a fellow just jumps them, after the girls dance...modernity has dressed the girls up!...the recent remake of Jason and the Argonauts has Jason jump a mechanical bull...myself, I'm too tall and stiff to do somersaults...always had a kind of terror of them!...bull charging way beyond!...that could be a poem...the ancient Egyptians entombed their sacred bulls...gigantic granite coffins meticulously crafted...like an entire civilization beating its head against the fourth wall...

"break your crazy heads against the sky"

John Sebastian



Thursday, May 12, 2016

OTI:one poem and notes:5/11/16

Open To Interpretation

Flowers For Sale

275 265 255
285 275 265
The limping vagabond
Tends his white buckets sprouting colors
Under the Chevron totem pole
Flowers for sale
With one bouquet he
Hobbles to the curb edge,
Straight up waits
To ask
"For your sweetheart?..."


Notes:  I might change this one when I find out just what the flower sellers do say...usually I'm under the overpass, noisy and shaded, and pass on buying some, window rolled up, when they walk along the cue of cars waiting on the Trask traffic light...I don't know what arrangement, if any, they have with the Chevron Station, but thereabout at the intersection has become an established corner for them...Flower vagabond is the same vagabond as in yesterday's poem, but I see he's not African American, maybe...too far away...bit odd to write about real scenes and people who are unaware of the attention!...bit odd too to include commercial names, Arco, Chevron, and such...writing poems about Harbor Bl may require that, I'm thinking now...but it's a break with my 'out of time, out of place' rule!...hmmph...curio is that last night I'd thought, thinking of what subjects are along the Bl, to consider the flower sellers, and today at Denny's, there he was on the other side of the Bl...Bl is the abbreviation the street signs use for Boulevard, which is way too long a word to work into poems!...selling flowers makes his vagabond status questionable...in Town, street side selling is outlawed, but the enforcement seems to have relaxed...garage sales are happening every week at the same locations, vendor carts here and there, now and then a vendor comes through the laundry mat with strawberries or cherries...I've thought to set up with my paints and easel at the beach, and if someone asks to buy, wth, 'sure, here, let me show you what I have..."...brb...need to check something  from yesterday...google search: cocoon above below person of interest



Wednesday, May 11, 2016

OTI: one poem and notes: 5/10/16

Open To Interpretation

Radial Way

A too long song
The limping vagabond
In the crosswalk crossing
Green yellow red green yellow red green...
From the in the round seating,
The reluctant patient
Watch, listen,
Then accelerate away
On their radial way.


Notes:  I'm finding like a dozen different ways to write this one!  The sentiment was a tall slender African American who could barely walk, had a limp, crossing Harbor Bl at the intersection, the one I view from Denny's.  Someone might write a song, I thought, and it would be like that...presented as it were to a captive audience, who took no interest, but waited it out, then left.  And I kept messing with it, getting different takes, and scratched my head, "You don't write puzzle puzzle poems, DavidDavid!"...and I thought to note in the notes here just that, but had no idea how, and, and, lo and behold, tonight's episode of Person of Interest provided a 'sorta like'...Radial Way is sort of an Emily Dickenson poem...in the episode The Machine gives Harold a cryptic 0's and 1's code covering an 8x11 sheet of paper, and Root figures it out...it's a poem encoded...the story only shows a few beginning lines...clearly, an encouraging clue to viewers to google it!...Person of Interest sometimes seems to break through the fourth wall!...anyway, I googled it:


Cocoon above! Cocoon below!

Cocoon above! Cocoon below!
Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you so
What all the world suspect?
An hour, and gay on every tree
Your secret, perched in ecstasy
Defies imprisonment!

An hour in Chrysalis to pass,
Then gay above receding grass
A Butterfly to go!
A moment to interrogate,
Then wiser than a "Surrogate,"
The Universe to know!
Emily Dickenson 
I'd link the blog I snagged it from, it has a back and forth about 'surrogate'...Dickenson can be obscure, and followers have made a school of obscurity!...but I won't link...curious to see if the sites with this poem get traffic from the PoI audience!...but Dickenson likely arrived at 'surrogate' finding the rhyme for 'interrogate', or visa versa...trick with finding rhymes it to keep the sentiment of the poem intact...here are two of drafts of Radial Way...
A too long song
The limping vagabond
In the crosswalk crossing
Green yellow red green yellow red green...
The reluctant patient
Watch listen
Then excel their way
On the radial radio.


Oh!  A too long song
The limping vagabond
In the crosswalk crossing
Green yellow red green yellow red green...
From the in the round seating
The reluctant patient
Watch listen
Then excel their way
On their radial radio.

There are many drafts to any poem, single words, phrases, sentences, and such, all done in one's head...with the iphone note pad, I send home to my email drafts I write out...the above third version I like the best, a radial symmetry cropped up in the writing, and I went with it, repeating words, and I even looked up the definition of 'radial' (finding a rhyme for excel got me to radial!) to see if its sense fit the sentiment, and it did...the dictionary even had a 'radial radio' example!...but 'radio' is a stretch to express Town's street grid that may not be working...too 'Emily Dickenson', so I trimmed...poems are never finished!...the notion that we listen to radios, and are ourselves now radios too, while in our cars, cropped up too!...that's another poem!

The butterfly cocoon sentiment has a lot of room for interpretation!...lemmesee if someone nailed down 'surrogate'...brb...not much luck, but studied the blog back and forth...perhaps we are all surrogates, in the 'substitute' sense...that sense has to be there...that's the strong synonym for surrogate...but surrogate is in quotes, and capital S, and the back and forth brings up the lesser definition of 'ecclesiastic judge'...apparently The Machine identifies with the poem!...updates to follow...oh...'excel' is a problem...thought it was short for accelerate...oh, wait!...accelerate works!...came up with 'autoers', trying to think of word for 'those who drive cars'...that was to go where 'patient' is...being a bit clumsy with words has its uses!



Tuesday, May 10, 2016

OTI: one poem and notes:5/9/16

Open To Interpretation

We Are

We are a single minded crew,
Simple minded too.
The planets and stars reflect,
Plot on the polished black deck,
Our bow's direction.


hmmph...it's May...and going back a ways I've been putting April, '4' instead of May, '5' in the headers...

and now just now I wrote 'back aways', and apparently there is no 'aways' with the meaning I intended, and I guess the proper way is 'a way' or
'a ways'...two words...

there's a curio about English words, many of them look to have started out as two or more words, and then they joined together, letters, syllables, dropping out....and the prefexs and suffixes...I want to know what word they once were...what was 'ing' or 'ish'...somewhere maybe a dictionary of such...brb...oh!, there are...search: dictionary of suffixes and prefixes...one site is how they are used in biology...I often thought to id my fauna flora pics with formal biological names...many do...but few, if any, translate them out, and they remain 'Latin and Greek' to the reader!...for sometime a report on these dictionaries!!!...sometimes, I wonder if English was made up by one wordsmith, somewhat like I wonder if Egyptian hieroglyphs were made by one artist, so stylized they are, and then were faithfully copied from copy books for like five thousand years....

I stumbled on a gigantic work studying out Keats, his poem Ode to Melancholy in particular...apparently, he admired, and was influenced by another Melancholy poem by 17th century author Robert Burton...


In his satirical preface to the reader, Burton's persona Democritus Junior explains, "I write of melancholy by being busy to avoid melancholy."

The Anatomy of Melancholy

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
It's like a thousand pages long, and by some considered 'a' poem...for sometime...
On occasion, in the real day to day, I let slip that I like to write, and immediately want to reel back my admission...there's just no way, with new friend, or old, I want to scheme to see them see this!...I don't know how authors get along with that dilemma...I would paint outside in the Valley, but grew tired of the attention, so kept to my cabin...if you're an A list author, I guess it don't matter at the Thanksgiving table gathering...you bought the Turkey!


Saturday, May 7, 2016

OTI: one poem and notes: 4/6/16

Open To Interpretation


It's a long commercial!
And all just feet and legs,
Jumping running dancing,
And not a hint of what it is advertising
Until the very end...a shoe store!
I pedal the stationary bike at the gym
And overhead the playoff basketball game begins again--
Fourth quarter, nearly over,
Oh, the ball squirts out of the point guard's hands,
A fatal turnover...
I'm thinking about all the feet and legs,
Recall a long way back, I told myself,
'Jump run dance'
In dedication to those who can't.
It's what I'd want, if I was wheel chair bound,
No one miss a step on my account.
Run!, and no one be remiss, a selfish layabout.
Fortunate I am, like most,
But in dreams I'm sometimes disabled,
My legs unstable,
Maybe a foretelling,
Or a cautionary hint at how fragile
We all are...


Notes: Lemme see if I can find the commercial!...brb...nope...update when I find it...there's more to this poem that I didn't work in...those who have take what they have for granted, and are entirely oblivious to how they appear to those less fortunate...I always pinched myself when in the Valley, knowing how few have the opportunity to visit, my own circumstance of late!...don't know, but I just generally day to day pinch myself!



Wednesday, May 4, 2016

OTI: Ten Poems and Notes:4/3/16

Open To Interpretation


Oh, they expect us to live on thin air,
And no joy provide,
Only toil and study, hope denied.
Rather tend the nested fledglings, I,
And fly
In your clouds, storms, blue sky.

The Garden Paths

Oh, the garden paths are well tended
Mile after mile after mile,
But no flowers seed on cement and steel and glass.

Spiders and Wasps

Ivy overgrows my cedar roof,
Spiders and wasps under
The eaves find nooks.

Astronauts' Tears

We don't belong here
And now,
Because of here
We don't belong there.


Rhymes I find
If not

Arm in Arm

In the booth
Arm in arm
Sharing menus.


Not enough syllables,
Jacaranda purpleicity,
How's that?

This and That

Between this and that,
This being them,
That being the other them.


Before we shoulder the packs
We need to divide up the mutual loads.
I have a few dilemmas,
Oh!, more than a few,
But I can take on more.
Let's go over yours.

The Black Ship

Keats imagined your black ship
Then fled overboard
For dry land...
Too scary.


Notes: I've never resorted to a rhyming dictionary, but wth, and looked for something to go with 'provide', and found 'denied'...and in school, I never resorted to Cliffs/Sparks notes...too easy...but I need help nowabout trying to make sense of old poems for a readership, albeit tiny!...when it was just me, wth...anyway, I've been going over Keats' Odes...there's a grouping of five...the first two, Indolence and Melancholy, are like he's trying to get his feet under him to do the others...I sometimes think this is what Shakespeare was doing with his sonnets, which I've been looking at too...the notes, I mean, on the web...notations are important I guess...scholars make entire careers out of them...after awhile I find they all look alike, and something's missing...anyway, Ode to Melancholy has a deleted Stanza...no telling why Keats didn't use it, it wasn't even with his papers, but rather in correspondence papers with friends...it's kind of cool...and from it The Black Ship above...


Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones,
And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast,
Stitch creeds together for a sail, with groans
To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast;
Although your rudder be a dragon's tail
Long sever'd, yet still hard with agony,
Your cordage large uprootings from the skull
Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail
To find the Melancholy — whether she
Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull.

Keats (from Cliff notes)

Oh, Person of Interest is back!..."can you see me?"



Monday, May 2, 2016

OTI: one poem: See Me

Open to Interpretation

See Me

Oh, I cast about desperate
In my wardrobe of stories
What happened then,
What happened there,
Something flattering to me to share
And so avoid your glare.
It's hopeless,
The whole history of the earth
Can sit closed on a bookshelf
And not shadow a single new day.
So, I put on my t-shirt, long sleeves,
Levis, Hanes, half ankles, soccer shoes,
Valley hat, and goggles
Just to see you
See me.
And what do you do?
Nothing at all,
Just nothing at all!


OTI: Seven Poems and Notes 4/2/16

Sunday, May 1, 2016

OTI: Four Poems and Notes 4/30/16

Open To Interpretation


Deep voiced
Black suited
Neck tied
Knock on my door.
Thinking some worry
Think to shout out
Go away,
But elevate to be polite.
Enough blood refreshed my brain
To note their black books
And salesmen entry.
Interrupt "no" I say
And wave them away.
A lost sort,
I imagine they think,
Or impertinent;
Either way not worth delay
To spread fire and brimstone.
I have no hell,
They could tell.
I wish them well
In theirs.

One Beer

It's not that I can't drink
Profusely, boisterously,
I can,
But pass the crowds beyond the windows,
The hubbub sounds from the open doorways.
It's a culture
All consuming
I never fit.
Now and then
I have a beer
In deference,
One enough to get quietly lit.

First Mate

First mate
Among the lonely I rate.
Late, at your command,
Pirates stand.
I bring them to muster,
A shy cluster.
They blush and redden
At your attention.

China Sailors

Your black decked ship
With the neon sails
Could some night tie up
At the Village's boat docks.
I hadn't thought.
One doesn't
When at Sea.
For the crew,
No shore leave,


Notes:  I don't know what to think, things are just going to pieces...I'm sitting in Silver my Jeep, listening to morning sports talk radio while parked in the driveway...the mail box flag up, my smog successful  car registration payment waiting to send inside...and the post man just walks by...I roll the window down, 'hey', I say,one house down...'HEY WAIT' two houses down...hmmph...I chase after, envelope in hand...'You just walked by!'...he's even slow to turn around...'Oh, my bad'...wish I had a job where you just walk around!...and the day before in the mail, I get a letter from the Democratic Party...been a democrat all my life...not a peep...apparently all the republican quacking has moved them...and, no, I wont donate...they've all made my vote into a 'price is right' choice...and, now, three times now...Anaheim, Anaheim, Costa Mesa...my Town, of all the Towns, has gone blood red eyed nuts over all the quacking!...I just, well, I just write poems...